Choices
by ChequeRoot
Summary: James Wesley knows the proverb: "a man cannot serve two masters," and he knows that quote doesn't apply to him. Wesley serves only one man. What so many saw as a foolish mistake was always carefully planned from the beginning. When it came to his devotion to Wilson Fisk, Wesley never made any mistakes. [one-shot]


_I hate this city,_ he'd thought as he sat in the hospital. Uninjured, but still hurting. Time and time again, the idea of leaving swam through his mind, but he was always held back. Restained. Bound. Not physically of course, their relationship didn't extend to that level of involvement, but it might as well have been that way. By design or choice, his life had become so intertwined with Wilson that even were he to leave, it would be a metaphorical death. There was a sickness in the city, a rot that prevented anyone from having what their heart truly desired. A monster, a cancer, that ate dreams and spat out mangled remains.

Well, that would happen no longer.

He would fix it. While Wilson was in with Vanessa, he grabbed a gun from one of their guards, and left.

 _We don't always get what we want._

 _No… but some of us deserve to._

Wilson loved the city. He didn't see a monster, he saw a woman clothed in rags, but truly magnificent underneath the grime. Wilson always had an eye for beauty, even in the most austere. He could see things for what they truly were. Vanessa was beautiful, and strong. She would survive. Wesley had assured Wilson of that.

 _I know how he sees me,_ Wesley thought.

He saw the way Wilson looked at him. He saw the way Wilson looked at Vanessa, especially in the hospital. He loved her, and she him, in a way different but no less real than his own. Wilson would forever be torn between the two of them, what they represented.

 _Man cannot be both savior and oppressor, light and shadow. One has to be sacrificed for the other. Choose, and choose wisely. Or others shall choose for you._

He remembered Wilson telling him that. Cryptic wisdom from Madam Gao. And yet, it made everything so clear. I know who I am, he thought as he regarded the blond woman across the table from him. She was trembling like a rabbit that had just seen a hawk, and knew it had nowhere to hide. What was her name again? Paige? Karen? Karen Page. That was it.

Did it really matter anyhow?

"You are going to convince him that everything is fine. That you were wrong. That Wilson Fisk is a good man." Words. So easy to say. Words always flow the smoothest when a man truly believes what he's saying. Wesley thought of the city, horrible, soul-crushing. He spoke as if to threaten the girl, but in truth, he thought of himself. Fisk. That moment where he knew he'd always be standing on the sidelines. When you have no more tears left to shed… yes. Because the city feeds on them. Everyone he ever cared about.

The phone rang.

He watched Karen's eyes flick towards the gun he'd set on the table moments before. It was no accident. Like everything he did, it was planned, calculated. Her eyes looked back at him. A thin trickle of moisture was leaking from her eyes, her nose. Her breathing took on a ragged edge. Time moved slowly. It was as if he were standing outside himself, in a dream, watching the scene unfold. He felt nothing, but a strange sense of calm. Her eyes darted down towards the gun again.

The phone kept ringing.

Wesley knew who it was. He looked down, regardless.

He knew she must've moved quickly, but for him it seemed an eternity: her body arching forward, arms extending as she curved over the table, delicate fingers wrapping themselves around the silver barren, spinning it towards him, and grasping the matte black stock. She held the weapon with both marzipan hands, finger on the trigger. Thumbs safely out of the way of the action. Held it, with intent to kill. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. Her body shook. Her hands were steady.

"Do you really think," Wesley began, "that I would put a loaded gun on the table where you could reach it?"

As if it was a mistake, Wesley thought, and sneered. He wanted to ask her, _Do you think I'm stupid?_ No. Not stupid at all. Smart enough to leave a loaded gun. On the table. Where she _would_ reach it.

The blond was talking, he barely heard her. She was drawing it out, taking too long. _Others will chose for you._ Between the line of duty, honor, and perhaps even love, lay a road of broken cobblestones. A path known as sacrifice. Wesley knew. There was no other way. If she didn't, then he'd find another avenue. But she wouldn't back down now. She was too scared, too desperate. Even a rabbit will fight in the last moments.

This had gone on long enough.

Wesley adjusted his glasses and put his hands on the table. Detached, calm. "Miss Page," he began as he made to stand.

The familiar bark of the pistol was nothing new to him, didn't start him out of his trance. The force of the bullet knocked him back, and he sat down heavily. This is wrong, he thought, looking at his right shoulder where the bullet had hit him. A spark of anger flickered in the languid mood. _Really, woman, are you that horrible of a shot? Are you serious?_ He looked at her incredulously.

The woman fired again, and again. No real skill or technique, but it got the job done. Wesley felt a measure of peace with each white-hot bite in his flesh. He closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair, a relaxed posture he could never have taken in life.

He smiled, briefly, his last act done in love.

 _Chose, or others will chose for you._

 _Now, my dear, you have nothing holding you back._


End file.
